


shuck all the light

by Lvslie



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Romance, and a bit of crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8144507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lvslie/pseuds/Lvslie
Summary: A Hogwarts AU. John Noble is, to put it mildly, rather lousy with expressing his feelings.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: so i wrote a thing! originally inspired by @timepetalsprompts prompt ‘feelings’ but then it grew into an over 7k words thing and I realized both that i’m late and that i need to split it in three parts. which is good, because i don’t have to worry about not writing next chapters if someone wants to read, as i already have ‘em written, yay. no beta, all mistakes mine!

 

_I'll shuck all the light from my skin  
_ _Then I'll hide it in you._

It’s April – barely even morning, in fact, but more of a quiet decay of the night, day emerging drowsily from under the stuffy clouds. Air crisp and light to breathe, colours of the light and grass only just beginning to flush with vibrance, in a way that makes people look oddly bleak and plain in comparison. In a way that would’ve usually made her smile.

Now all it does is paint the greytones of her own skin sharper. And the air stings, doesn’t help her breathe but forces to remember. She has trouble inhaling, can’t seem to do it properly – but that has hardly anything to do with the air itself. It’s just the smell of frost that is so familiar and so contradictorily suffocating in its false freshness.

...

A night in Hogsmeade. The very end of anything even remotely connected to winter, or so it would seem – first day of Spring. And yet there’s snow circling about her head as she worries her lower lip, heart fluttering mercilessly in her chest; an unpleasant reminder that after everything is said and done, it will carry on working regardless of the outcome.

“I thought you and me were ...” her voice hitches and dies away, but he offers no response, just stares at her with something in those large, expressive eyes that is not quite anger and not quite fear. Something foreign, feral. Something a caged bird could look like. She knows she’s been wrong to have asked but she can’t exactly stop  _now_ , can’t show anything of the numbing icy feeling that dizzies her nerves – not in the face of her rushing heart; not in the face of dignity it demands of her.

“I obviously got it wrong,” she says quietly, her voice betraying no emotion. A snowflake teases one of her cheekbones, but to shiver would require feeling at least  _vaguely_  alive. 

“Look, I – ” he trails off, jaw set tight. He’s staring at the snow beneath his feet – wearing the canvas trainers again and she can’t help but worry he’ll catch a cold and oh, he’s so terrible at having colds, refusing to see a Healer until he’s practically wheezing his lungs out, constantly punishing his body for daring to carry him on. She can’t help but think she might not get to smack him across the chest this time, or force the Pepperup Potion into his mouth, the jutted lower lip accusing her of betraying their friendship as she smirks. 

“I’m not ...”

“I think you should just ... go.”

She doesn’t  _think_ , or at least not about that. She registers, absently, the way his hair falls onto his scrunched-up forehead and how his freckles need no sun to persist the whole year long and how his coat and robes hang off his bony shoulders. She thinks she might not bear to go on like that much longer. Thinks the return to her mother’s crammed little flat with Muggle magazines piled under the telly and her old Hogwarts robes buried deep in the wardrobe has never before felt this compelling.

He nods – a sharp, twitchy movement. Avoiding eye contact, he turns away and leaves, walking in jerky long strides, bent forward – sheltering himself from the snow.

She gazes after him and exhales, shakily, breath bundling up into steam upon leaving her lips. There’s a hollow silence all around, nothing in it except of his creaking, taunting footsteps and her  –counting seconds before the stinging in her eyes will be too much and she will have to blink.

...

The wind picks up.

Two cloaked figures make their way through the stands encircling the Quidditch pitch. The first one – pacing briskly with springy steps – is tall, ginger and wrapped in an large Gryffindor-coloured scarf. The second one, slighter in build and decisively more reluctant, keeps pushing her dark hair from her face and trying to avoid stumbling.

“Sweet Merlin, Donna, it’s like  _five_  in the bloody  _morning_ ,” a vaguely whiny voice is mumbling. “Remind me, why can’t we just go back to sleep? I have, like, seven Herbology chapters to revise before the finals, not to mention –”

“Aw, come on, Martha, don’t be such a flobberworm!” 

At that, Martha halts, looking at her companion incredulously. Her vision is rapidly sharpened. “Uh,  _excuse_  me?”

Donna shows no sign of having registered her reply lest a tiny smirk. “Every Quidditch team needs cheering. We’re doing the right thing, showing the support for our Lions.”

“...  _you’re_  catching an occasion to stare at Jack Harkness’ arse, you mean,” Martha corrects her sourly as they scramble up one of the aisles and Donna descends with dubious grace onto the carefully chosen strategic viewpoint.

“I won’t dignify that with an answer,” she says brightly, fidgeting with the portable binoculars she’s brought with her.

Martha lets out a small sigh. “Donna, that was such a lousy argument. I’m not even in Gryffindor.”

“You still like us better than Slytherins, though, don’t you?” The elbow-nudge Donna directs at her might have been meant as amiable. However, given the fact she’s already seeking out the said Jack Harkness’ figure down on the pitch, it turns out merely painful when it pokes Martha in a very unwelcome area and prompts her to yelp.

“Bloody hell, what are you two even  _doing_  here?”

Martha is brought back to her senses in less than a split of second.

“Oh, no, not you again,” Donna complains, looking over her shoulder with a grimace. “What are  _you_  doing here, eh?”

The reply is short. “I asked you first.”

Beside them, having maouevred his way between the aisles with this impossible grace of his, stands John Noble – dark hair artfully tousled; frowning, if vaguely amused. With the top two buttons of his shirt’s collar undone beneath the Raveclaw scarf he’s sporting.

Martha’s cheeks heat up way too quickly. This is not going to end well.

...

_(She hasn’t quite inhaled properly ever since.)_

It’s April – has barely just started, in fact, but Rose is not sure of the date. Days flurry past her in a smooth, grey tumble, rather senseless and rather dull. She doesn’t even  _feel_  that much. In fact, the only prevailing impression she can recall from these weeks is a lingering sense of being constantly ashamed.

An irritated, high-pitched female voice cuts through the crisp air and Rose finds herself cringing.

“Line up by the third loop! Come on,  _move_ , quickly! We don’t have any more time to lose! Stop it, Simmonds,  _right now_!”

“Where does she even  _get_  all this anger from?” another voice speaks up with amusement. She glances over – Jack Harkness, clad in a Gryffindor Quidditch uniform is chewing on a pumpkin pastry and leaning against his broom. “She’s, like, so ... small.  _Tiny_. Tiny blonde blue-eyed Jenny. Composed, however, solely from vengeance, passion and anger. Don’t you think that’s what greek goddesses were like?”

Rose shrugs or nods or maybe just exhales in a way that might as well be a sigh. Jack shoots her a look of disapproval, biting into the pastry.

“Why, aren’t you an chirpy little lark, Rosie,” he mutters.

“Oh,  _shut_  it, Jack,” she grumbles, fighting the urge to rub her eyes and thus effectively ruin the makeup (which, in turn, would serve as a visual accentuation of how dead she feels inside). “You know I bloody  _hate_  the morning sessions.”

He shoves the rest of the pastry into his mouth and wipes his hands on the tight-fitting beige trousers. “Well, I love ‘em. Quite a sight that is, after all! Rose Tyler in a tight red robe and boots.  _Everyone_  in tight red robes and boots. And –” 

He looks around and involuntarily she follows his lead. Jake Simmonds is glaring at Jenny’s swaying ponytail as she keeps on shrieking. Little Timothy is jumping up and down to stop his teeth from clattering. Sally Sparrow tries to stifle a yawn.

“Almost everyone so deliciously blonde,” Jack states pleasantly. “Where do I even fit in?”

She finally manages a weak smile, an occasion both rare and treasurable as of lately. “You love that, though, don’t you? Jack Harkness, the infamous Black Horse of Gryffindor.” She purposefully says it in a lilting, seductive tone mimicking one he often uses. 

He grins. “I knew I loved you for a reason.”

(And for a moment she feels like, maybe, she can still make it through this morning. And maybe some other ones, too.)

“ _Tyler_! Harkness! Stop with the ...  _twittering_  and come up here right now!” 

Rose swings the broom over her shoulder. “Aye, aye, Captain,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m on my way.”

Jack licks the crumbs off his thumb, squinting at her. “Is it just me or did it sound very sexual? Especially the ‘Captain’ part?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, no, it’s just you.”

“Or maybe it’s  _you_ ,” he wonders, feigning thoughtfulness. “Come to think of it, your voice does have a certain honeying quality that – ”

She bumps his hipbone with hers and pokes his stomach with the end of her broom. Jenny’s aggravated shouts increase in volume as he howls with laughter.

...

( _She keeps on thinking she will make it until she takes notice of the pair of slender-figured people in green robes similar to theirs, who are making their way across the pitch._ )

She bites back a groan, her insides wringing into a tight knot. “Oh, no. Not  _her_  again.”

Jack, who by this point has procured another pumpkin pastry from the mysterious depths of his precariously tight trousers’ pockets, narrows his eyes and mumbles out, “ _‘hho_?”

“Who d’ya think?” she snaps, motioning her head towards the quickly approaching duet of the Slytherin team members. “Reinette  _Pumpkin-Juice-Is-Too-Plebeian-For-My-Dainty-French-Ass_  Poisson.”

Jack gives her a sideways glance. “Well, it’s hardly her fault they serve coffee and croissants in Beauxbatons, Ro – ”

“Don’t make it worse,” Rose growls and grips the handle of her broom more tightly.

_(I will make it, I will make it, I will make it – )_

“Literally the only reason you don’t like her, Rosie, is that she tried to seduce John Noble back in fifth year,” Jack observes casually and her blood just about boils. “That, and maybe the fact she’s French and your mum’s a live example of British xenophobia at its finest.”

“Christ, Jack – no, it’s  _not_ ,” she bites out. “She’s a Slytherin who thinks of me in the vague categories of a bit of ... dirt that can be potentially harmful for her precious silky robes. If it wasn’t so politically incorrect and she wasn’t so bloody  _posh_  she’d be the first to Mud me.”

She doesn’t even know if she believes that herself and it only makes her feel even more pathetic. 

 _Pathetic_. The feeling she’s having more and more trouble distunguishing from any thought concerning herself. The Pathetic Rose Tyler, born and raised in Muggle London, thrown into the sparkly world of magic and led to believe she is something more.

Always, always learning the hard way that she is, in fact,  _not_.

“That’s not true and you know it. Besides, what kind of an argument is that, ‘ _she’s a Slytherin so she hates me_ ’? Clara Oswald is a Slytherin and I don’t see that stopping either of you from getting high on Chocolate Frogs together each Friday under the false pretense of Muggle Studies tutoring ... which, by the way, I’m still  _awfully_  jealous about. Can’t you just do everyone a favour and tutor us both?”

“I’m not saying every Slytherin hates me, Jack, don’t be stupid.”

“And  _that_ ,” he says, gesturing dramatically, “is my point exactly.”

She merely rolls her eyes, trying to ingore the tightening feeling in her gut. Reinette is drawing closer, accompanied by a tall blonde-haired boy, hands stuck deep in his trousers’ pockets.

Her heart skips a bit.

“Oh, bloody hell, it’s – oh,  _fuck_.”

...

Martha inhales with a hiss, trying to relax.

She’s had this goddamn crush on John Noble for a time longer than can be even justifiable. For so long, actually, that she can hardly remember  _not_  having a crush on him and  _not_  having to hide it.

Because as much as she’d  _like_  him to, John Noble has simply never expressed the slightest symptom of reciprocating the said crush. And it’s not like she’s ever even had too much hope in the first place; she was too good for that. Too bright not to see the way his  _stupid_  beautiful face nearly splits from how wide his grin stretches out when Rose Tyler happens to find something he’s said funny or laid her despair-inducingly-blonde head on his shoulder.

 _Only_ , about two weeks or so ago, the exact same Rose Tyler has begun avoiding saying hello to John Noble. 

And John Noble, though decisively grimer and even more sarcastic than she remembers him ever being, quite distinctly  _fails_  to acknowledge Rose Tyler’s existence altogether.

Martha knows very well it’s foolish for her heart to perk up at the thought of something so vague. She know it’s foolish and very, very  _unlike_  the Martha everyone knows and respects.

_(But her heart often has other ideas than Martha’s perfectly logical mind.)_

Not that it  _shows_. If there’s anything in the world she’s brilliant at (well, except Potions and Herbology and being Hogwart’s coolest Head Girl since Lily Evans, and perhaps diplomatic relations, too) it’s exactly keeping up appearances.

“So what is it that brings you here at such an ungodly hour?” she asks him conversationally as he sits down on the bench beside her – legs too long to properly fit in the small amount of space in front of him, he clashes oddly with the viewer’s seat. Most of the times he’s up there, much higher than the rest, hunting the tiny little Snitch the fuss over which has always eluded Martha.

John tugs at his ear, giving her a tight smile. “Well, I wouldn’t call it ungodly. It’s actually the closest to godly we get, I think. Quiet and nice and largely devoid of fussing humans. That’s a very  _heavenly_  idea, don’t you think?”

It’s no answer but quite a crafty evasion and she is just about to say so when Donna gives an ominous whistle. “Uh-oh. Now it’s gonna get  _nasty_.”

“What do you mean?” John frowns and moves to the fence, squinting down. 

Martha swears a shadow crosses his face when he realises ( _how come he hasn’t realised earlier? or perhaps – oh, yes. Yes, he has, that’s why he’s come here in the first place, silly_ ) who  the tiny blonde-haired figure in the sand that stands side by side with Jack Harkness is. But the shadow is quickly swallowed up by a frown, this time directed at the couple of green-coloured people nearing the red ones slowly.

“Well,” Martha says quietly. “That does not bode well, does it?” 

His eyes are darting between two spots down below and she is sure she knows which ones exactly.

> tbc


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens on the Quidditch pitch …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm very uneasy about the story, liked writing it but lost all the heart to it upon reading. So ... uh, I hope it's okay?

> _I’ll pluck the long grass  
> _ _That grows from me and hide it (in you)_

 

“Well, hello  _there_ ,” a sickeningly familiar voice snarls. Jack shifts beside her and Rose wills herself to remain still.

Harold Saxon. Tall, with a pointed face and a small smug smile almost perpetually plastered to his lips. Famous for being wondrously pureblood, absolutely sociopathic and just as keen on pushing needles in the sorest places of every person that comes within eye contact.

For as long as she can remember, she’s always been slightly yet firmly  _afraid_  of Harold Saxon.

...

At eleven, she promises herself to be  _different_  in this eerily new reality – a tougher, more solid Rose Tyler, one that will stand up for Elton when other kids tease him and fight off Jack’s bullies and never,  _ever_  cry again. And so, she can never  _show_  just how much the sight of him makes her skin crawl.

But he picks on Jack, who Rose considers fearless and he picks on Martha Jones, who she thinks exactly as smart as  _she_  can never be.

And he’s the one person who knows exactly what to say in order to turn John’s steady armour of bravado and arrogance into dust; morph it into overwhelming vulnerability.

( _And doesn’t that always scare her the most? The thought of him losing all the life she’s so meticulously threaded into his hair and rubbed into his skin?_ )

Saxon, she gives him that, hardly ever pays her any kind of attention. He does not, after all, notice her kind of people – people who speak least magical kind of cockney, quietly prefer pens over quills and wear shoes that clash ridiculously with the stagnant tranquility of Hogwarts uniforms.

But it all circles back to John in the end. As soon as she draws closer to him, it becomes an irrevocable pattern – Saxon thriving at the slightest hint of her discomfort.

…

“Saxon. Poisson. What are you doing here?” Jenny demands sharply, crossing her arms. “ _I_  booked the pitch for today.”

Reinette raises her eyebrows with a smirk.

“Oh, that’s cute,” Harold replies softly – with the disturbing curve of a half-smile on his lips and this odd vanancy in his shrewd eyes, he seems barely  _human_. “But I think you’ll need to leave anyway. This little permission from Professor Davros I have here will surely show you the way out.”

“A permission based on  _what_?” Jack grunts out.

The empty eyes skim over Rose unseeingly before settling on Jack’s face. “On the ability to give it, Harkness, given to the teachers by their status. Too hard to comprehend for you? Now, but sticking to the norms of behaviour according to the social level has never really been your forte, or has it?”

Just like that, all of Jack’s muscles tense up and Rose has to fight an urge to kick Saxon hard in the shins.

...

It’s so bloody  _easy_  to pick on Jack, after all. Remind him of what he’s used to be: an eleven-year-old boy who steals silver out of the kitchen’s cupboards, to sell it hastily in Hogsmeade’s dingiest corners, trying to save up for a flat for the summer, away from a family that hardly deserves this name.

_(At some point, he stops doing that. He stops because she talks him out of it and invites him to stay over at Mickey’s – just because, well, her mother won’t be very pleased to have her come back from the magical school with both an owl and a boy as roommates.)_

Such a seemingly  _harmless_  thing to do in a castle that brims with prosperity, picking out a few silver forks and teaspoons. And yet, if you want to humble the proud Gryffindor Jack Harkness, nothing quite as  _easy_  as bringing it up.

...

“This is  _bullshit_ , Saxon, and you bloody know it,” Rose says hotly. “Since when is getting a bloody permission slip from a teacher that knows shit about Quidditch  _just_  to avoid waiting for your turn even  _acceptable_  at Hogwarts?”

The shark eyes find her face in an excruciatingly slow motion.

“ _Rose Tyler_ ,” he says with relish –  a sticky masterpiece of a sound; vaguely disgusted yet curious, deliberately drawn out to match his eyes that linger leeringly, skimming down her body. She has to fight the urge to shudder, to flee.  

(She  _knows_  such looks all too well.)

“Gryffindor’s prettiest toy for rent. Tell me, Tyler, have someone new yet? Maybe  _I_  can make a claim since Noble’s evidently got bored? Manage to squeeze me into your …  _tight_  schedule?”

She feels like her skin is slowly burning.

_(John has once told her: Saxon knows exactly what to say to whom to make them feel their lowest, if only by the memory’s grace. Remember that, Rose, and watch out.)_

Where or who does he get his information from, Rose has never been sure. One thing is certain, though: he knows about Jimmy Stone long before she even dares  _think_  of telling John, too ashamed, not even remotely  _willing_  to face the memory, too repelled of his potential bad reaction.

He knows and he makes it very clear for her that telling someone – someone very special – would be the easiest thing to do. And so much fun, don’t you think, Tyler?

_(Of course John does find out in the end. And of course he makes sure to inform he doesn’t care one bit what she’s done with whom whenever. Well, as long as this someone didn’t hurt her. If they did, he does care enough to hunt them down and hex them into Jupiter and have them come back to her on their knees, pleading forgiveness. How about that, Rose Tyler? And she says, so blissfully relieved, that no, it’s a closed chapter. No, she’s learned to forget.)_

“You’re such a piece of shit, Saxon. Bloody  _inhuman_ ,” she says very quietly, holding her chin up as she fixes him with a steady glare. “But that’s  _your_  problem, not mine. And as far as I’m concerned, there is no room for breaking common rules such as waiting for your turn to rent the pitch here. So you can go stick your bloody slip up your  _bloody_  arse for all I care – and kindly get it off this pitch  _right now_.”

There’s a collective murmur of approval from her team, but his only response is a complacent smile spilling stickily over the edges of his mouth. And to Rose’s horror, he steps  _closer –_ a hungry tinge to his lifeless eyes that reminds her of Jimmy, reminds her of his suffocating  _smell_  – he steps closer and extends his hand, brushing awfully cold fingers along her skin, gripping her chin in a way that is not as much  _forceful_  as quietly implying the potential force.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he mutters in a low, husky voice, “that you’re very hot when angry, Tyler?”

She sucks in a breath that is traitorously shaky but before she can form a reply that would not only serve to broaden this creepy smile of his, a steely, familiar voice rings out and causes her heart to leap into her throat.

_“Get away from her.”_

John Noble is approaching the gathering in quick strides, the expression of his eyes being one she’s once teasingly dubbed the ‘Oncoming Storm’ – back in third year, when she was still patiently teaching him to smile on a daily basis.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly,  _too_  quickly for it to be convincing, yanking her chin away from Saxon’s reach. “It’s  _fine_ , really. I’ll manage on my own.”

But he ignores her, eyes fixed on Saxon, who grins, clearly delighted.

“Or  _what_? Johnny’s gonna tell the teachers that the bad boy Harry’s been naughty again? Said bad things to his little Mudblood girlfriend?”

Before she can as much as  _blink_ , John has grabbed him by the green robe’s lapels, hauling him close. Someone gasps and Rose tries to surge forward, but Jack holds her back, murmuring, “Don’t get involved.”

She hisses, “I’m already involved.”

John’s face hovers millimeters from Saxon’s, the tips of their noses almost colliding. There’s something frightening in both of them; either one’s lack of self-control or the latter’s relish.

“Touch her  _one more time_ , Saxon. One bloody time and I swear, there’s nothing in the world that will be able to stop me. Fucking  _look_  at her and you’re dead. Understood?”

For a moment there’s a hollow silence and Rose’s heart does all in its might to leap out from her chest by the erratic beating. 

Harold blinks. His smile twitches half an inch wider.

“Oh,” he mutters quietly in a lilting voice, “we’re rather possesive of our little toy, now, aren’t we?”

What happens next is a blur.

One moment John’s standing rigidly still, his expression unfathomable. Next second, he’s pushing Saxon’s face into the ground in a tight headlock, digging a knee into his back, barking curses into his year in a language she can’t even pretend to understand.

She flings herself forward with unexpected force, escaping Jack’s reach and grabs fistfuls of John’s robe, trying to haul him back up. But he’s too strong, only seemingly brittle in his lankiness and her efforts fall short.

“John, don’t!” she pleads. “Please, don’t. Can you hear me? Leave him,  _please_. He’s not worth it. John, listen to me. He’s not worth it.  _JOHN_.”

His muscles relax abruptly as she manages to catch one of his wrists with her hand – he lets Saxon fall to the ground with a strangled gasp. Reinette shrieks something about barbaric behaviour.

Rose is unable tear her eyes away from John’s face.

The ferocity in his eyes is softening steadily into something else entirely; something she recognizes from that night in the end of March and that makes her heart ache. 

It strikes her that one of her hands is fisted into the fabric of his shirt, the other one cluthing his hand tightly. She lets them both fall limply – a brief flash of loss flickers across his face before he composes himself and jerks backwards.

_(And how, how in Merlin’s name, can he still not know if he loves her, when everything they bloody do, they do out of this stupid restless love?)_

Instead of an answer, she gets a throaty bark directed at the sand on which Harold keeps thrashing. “Remember that, Saxon.”

The Slytherin barks out a laugh and spits out some blood onto John’s shoes, accepts Reinette’s hand as she helps him up and she hates him, oh, she hates him so much. She’s never known it was in her to hate anyone, but she has no compassion left to spare Harold Saxon as she knows what he will do before he does it.

“Oh, I  _will_ ,” he says with a crooked half-smile, half-grimace, lifless eyes boring into John. “Trust me, I always remember what’s really  _important_  about you.”

John flinches at that, almost imperceptibly – a shadow crippling his features as if he has been slapped.

Reinette is dragging Saxon away to where the rest of their team is waiting, Jack is shouting rich invectives at their retreating backs, Jenny half-heartedly tries to impose some order on the situation. Martha Jones keeps calling out something in the distance. 

Rose is not listening.

The wind picks up again –  _cold_ , not a bit Spring-y in feeling, ruffling her hair and sneaking in lithe tingling motions underneath the thin fabric of her robes as she walks towards John. He’s staring at his palms, a deepening look of horror on his face; heaving ragged, hoarse breaths and trembling all over his body.

_(He reminds her, more than anything, of an Autumn leaf, fluttering in the wind before it falls down.)_

“ _Hey_ ,” she says, voice catching in her throat, wishing she could touch him. “Hey, it’s okay.”

He looks at her like he wants to haul her closer, gather up into a hug and  _dissolve_ , along with this rigid righteousness that usually keeps him put together – but  _oh_ , he never does that unless they’re alone. Will probably never do it again, because she has ruined it all, ruined with her needy naive hope for romanticism.

He’s  _remembering_  and she knows exactly what subtle horror this memory delivers. Precisely what it will do to him, over and over again.

_(If he’s a leaf, then she’s already caught him once.)_

…

It’s in her lousy poorly-paid summer job’s basement, of all places, where she first talks to him properly.

She’s seen him at school, obviously; it would be hard not to. The brilliant boy of Ravenclaw, wiry and lanky and big-mouthed. Intimidating; if you think he’s smarter than you, it’s because he  _is_  smarter than you – and if you get too close, he will give you this look of a captured bird, flutter his wings and fly off.

“ _Go_!” he’s shouting, struggling and gasping in the tight grip of the Kappa that keeps trying to throttle him. “Go, there’s still a way out from here! Leave me!”

But he does not understand. He does not understand  _anything_. Not the eleven years she’s spent being no one, nowhere, having  _nothing_  to say. Not the following three wasted on trying to fit in. Not the never-ceasing sense of disappointment that seems to follow her tirelessly wherever she goes. The sense of never being quite enough. Not Muggle enough, not magical enough. Not  _good_  enough, at any rate.

At some point, he stops writhing and slumps with resignation against his oppressor: a skinny, sad boy in a much too large leather-jacket who tries his best to save the world. And the decision is made before Rose even registers it. One step foward, two backwards and  _kick_.

_(The one thing she’s ever been good at – jumping off swingsets, pretending she can fly.)_

She kicks off the balustrade and knocks the Kappa unconscious with the soles of her worn once-white sneakers. His eyes are round as saucers as he leads them both outside, a cool long-fingered hand clutching her own.

Her heart hammers wildly in her chest, blood warm and head dizzy. They keep running – and oh, it feels  _good_. Feels good to feel needed.

…

Later, he frowns at her as they stand on the sunlit street, a hardly comprehensible mixture of emotions painted all over his face.

“There’s no one left. I’m on my own. And it’s my fault.”

It’s a matter-of-fact statement, delivered in a hollow, dispassionate voice. Somehow, he is the sole cause of an explosion that killed the families of both him and his once best friend Harold, leaving them shellshocked, orphaned – him forever guilty, Saxon forever lost.

_(And by the way, hanging out with me is really not a very good idea either, Rose Tyler. I’ve only avoided being in Slytherin because I begged the Sorting Hat so much. And I sort of keep attracting trouble.)_

She stares at him for a moment, chewing on her lower lip – a habit she’s long since stopped trying to lose. “Wanna get some chips?” she asks finally. “ _I_  want chips. You could tell me more about your family while we eat.”

He blinks in surprise; long lashes over round, dark eyes. “I don’t have any muggle money,” he says uneasily.

“What sorta date are you?” She scrunches up her nose and then grins up at him. “Come on then, tightwad, chips are on me.”

The way he looks at her, she might as well have saved his life again.

…

He comes round her house in the middle of the night, still in that ridiculous oversized jacket that makes him look like a hanger from her aunt’s shop – a textbook example of a pureblood Wizard trying to ‘blend in’ with the Muggles.

She tells him he looks ridiculous and he invites her to join him in using a randomly found Portkey, ‘ _just for kicks_ ’.

They’re dropped off in the middle of a puritan Wizarding community in Cardiff, where old women faint at the sight of Rose’s dyed hair and they have to do a whole  _lot_  of running to escape the vengeful ghosts from the empty house they’ve accidentally broken into.

...

When they come back, her mum smacks him on the face and they have to sneak out to the rooftop to avoid being banned from ever coming back to Hogwarts.

She says, “Don’t blame her, she doesn’t get it. Thinks all the magic and stuff is just another excuse to get out of taking my A-levels and all I’m really doing is volunteer work at the local circus. She even made me work for aunt Jo in that stupid shop over summer. When she saw you in that jacket she probably thought you were an illusionist or whatnot. Mind you, I would’ve slapped you as well in her place, just, y’know – in  _case_.”

He says, “I’m so glad that I met you.”

…

He composes himself a little – tugs at his ear sheepishly and smacks his lips. “Are  _you_  alright? Has he hurt you?”

“Yeah, no, I’m … he didn’t  _do_  anything,” she says quickly, heart skipping a beat as she fumbles for words. “Just said some nasty stuff, but you know how he is. Yeah, I’m alright. I … Thank you.”

He’s watching her, wary eyes and tense posture. When she finishes, he nods sharply. “ _Right_. If he ever – ”

“John!” It’s Martha, running up to them breathlessly. “Is everything alright? What the hell happened here?”

Donna is standing in the background, looking, for some reason, thunderous. John fidgets when Martha comes up, clearly uncomfortable.

Struck with a sudden clarity, Rose senses a way out.

“Uh – I’m gonna …  _go_ , I think. Quidditch practice yet to do. I’ll see you around.”

“Are you – ”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m  _fine_. Thanks for standing up for me.”

Before she can lose her nerve and do something as stupid as throwing her arms around his neck, she turns and stalks away – towards the spot where Jack is waiting, aiming a frown at John and Martha. He slings an arm across her shoulders and leads her towards the rest of the team.

She doesn’t look back.

> tbc


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Noble is, to put it mildly, rather lousy with expressing his feelings. (And it’s high time someone gave him a little push).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the ending of my @timepetalsprompts ‘feelings’ piece. I really do hope you enjoyed this story, because I did enjoy writing it but as I’ve said, I’m somewhat uneasy with how it turned out??  
> Anyway, lots of love for reading! xx

_It’s like your head is crumbled  
And hiding in you._

“And  _I_  said that the seventh use of moonstone is obviously constituting as the secret ingredient of Jack Harkness’ full body lotion and that I have to go because Donna and I should be busy dancing the naked dance of Cornish Pixies with Firenze in order convince Saturn not to fall on top of Hagrid’s hut next Wednesday.”

There’s a brief pause. John’s unfocused eyes only half-blink, some faraway synapse in his brain registering the descend of her voice’s pitch into silence.

An automatic response is delivered. “Sorry, what?”

She heaves a sigh. “Nothing. I said I’d better finish my essay, because my schedule’s full this week.”

“That’s brilliant, Martha.”

He’s not listening. Not even doing a good job at  _pretending_  to be listening. He has stopped registering anything the very moment he’s taken notice of Harold Saxon’s in Rose Tyler’s close proximity and nearly jumped off the stands to save his – in Martha’s humble opinion, perfectly  _self-manageable_  – princess from her vile offender.

_(Well. So much for that indulgent little fantasy of hers.)_

“You know what?” she says aloud, bracing herself. “Go find Donna. I think she might have something important to tell you.”

Something seems to finally click at that, as he looks at her in a marginally more conscious way. “I – yeah, alright. See you in a bit, Martha.”

He gives her a frustrating, friendly pat on the shoulder and strolls off.

Martha allows herself to be upset for approximately ten seconds before a voice interrupts her.

“Always the third wheel, eh? Even when it’s just the two of you in the bloody room?”

She blinks rapidly and frowns at the boy who is leaning against one of the shelves, fiddling with his yellow tie. There’s a vague knowing smile playing on his lips which  _irks_  her.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Smith,” Martha says, voice clipped.

“No, I meant …” He _does_  look a bit sheepish. Mickey Smith, Hufflepuff’s Quidditch team’s captain, Jake Simmonds’ best friend, Rose Tyler’s ex-boyf –  _ah_. 

It clicks.

“Look,  _all_  I’m trying to say, been there done that,” he explains clumsily. “I know the feeling, yeah? And you know what – he’s not worth it. Either of them. Really, you just gotta move on and accept it, ‘cause as much as they keep on hurting one another, there’s literally no way to make them realise there are even other people still around. And that’s not ... not really a good thing.”

She eyes him speculatively: something of a feline quality to his movements, something unexpectedly perceptive in his eyes.

And she has an idea.

“Yeah, well. I do know  _that_ , actually.” And then, after a pause. “Say, are you doing anything on Saturday?”

He’s taken aback. “Well, uh, I dunno. I don’t think so? I mean, it’s Hogsmeade, so I’ll probably go to Hogs– _ohh_. Oh.” He understands her telling look at last and Martha tries her best not to snort. “I mean, it would be great.  _Really_. Really great.”

She smiles, pushing the Herbology book back into its place. “Pick me up at four-thirty.”

…

Being friends with Jack Harkness sure has its perks. Quidditch is a lot more fun with varyingly dirty jokes, turns out, and so is charming your way through the adoring crowd of house-elves while on a hardly legal raid for treacle tart leftovers. Or playing Wizard Chess enchanted to talk like Eastenders characters who beat up one another.

But being friends with Jack Harkness means having  _no_  privacy in  _any_  aspect whatsoever.

“ _No_ , Rosie, you did  _not_  get smacked by that Bludger because ‘ _Saxon pissed you off_ ’. Saxon has been pissing you off for years and it’s hardly had any effect on your Quidditch skills. No.  _You_  got hit by the Bludger because  _you_  were distracted. And you were distracted because –”

“ – because John Noble practically threw himself at Saxon to defend me, yes,  _fine_. Fine, you’re right, that’s the reason I was distracted! Jack, honestly, who  _wouldn’t_  be? Besides, it’s not even like that Bludger really  _hit_  me, it just sort of ... brushed my cheek,” she mutters angrily, rubbing the irritated spot along her cheekbone and criging as it stings. 

Jack tut-tuts pointedly, leaning back on his seat. Textbooks long forgotten and tie flung away carelessly, he might as well be in the common room instead of the library. “Ah, but see, that is  _just_  my point. You got distracted during  _Quidditch_. Rose Tyler does  _not_  get distracted during Quidditch. Not ever. Unless she’s in love, that is.”

And he gives her a very suggestive eyebrow-wiggle.

“I’m not,” she hisses, slamming a Potions textbook onto the shelf furiously, “in bloody  _love_. With anyone.”

“I was not aware,” Jack drawls out, “that John has changed his name to Anyone. Quite unique, that, though just as problematic.”

She sends him, a heavy,  _heavy_  glare, one that the said John Noble usually likens to the look of her mother and which melts nine in ten of her opponets in mere seconds.

_(But not Jack bloody Harkness, obviously.)_

“Oh, okay,  _fine_ ,” she snaps finally, losing the fight with his stubborn smirk. “Fine, I’m in love with him. I’ve always been in bloody love with him. What can I do? What can I possibly  _do_  when every time I see him by stomach does a bloody backflip and every  _stupid_  neuron in my  _stupid_  brain – ”

“Every neuron in your brain _,”_ Jack cuts in, snorting. _“_ You do realise, Rose, that your mum was perfectly right, complaining about his impact on you? You  _do_  sound like him. With ... just a little bit of swearing thrown in to spice things up.”

“ _Not_  helping, Jack!”

He sighs. “You’re gonna think I’m mental for saying this, Rosie, but honestly, just ... go and tell him all this, alright?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” she admits dully and his eyebrows rocket up a bit. “I  _do_  think you’re mental.”

“Listen, he’s  _just_  as hopelessly in love with you as you are with him.”

This time, Rose merely laughs mirthlessly and slams the pile of books she’s been compiling onto the table in front of him.

“Oh yes,  _right_. He’s  _so_  in love with me. That’s the exact reason why he’s rejected me in practically every way possible. Yeah,  _true_  love on his part, that is.” She purses her lips. Brows knitted together, jaw set, she aims a kick at his chair’s leg. “Bloody infatuated, that John Noble. Blinded.”

Jack is not fazed. “The fact that he’s devastatingly  _lousy_  at actually talking about his feelings or displaying any sort of affection in a human way is a  _whole_  other animal.”

“Please,” Rose says through gritted teeth. “Please, don’t be ridiculous, Jack.”

“I’m not ‘being ridiculous’, Rosie. In fact, I’m as  _far_  from ridiculous as it gets. The way he  _looks_  at you is pretty much the way every self-respecting dog would look at its owner.”

She snorts. “Well. Sorry to disappoint you, Jack, but lately he can’t bring myself to do as much as glance my way.”

“Which only further proves my point.”

“Can you stop with the stupid  _points_? No, it doesn’t. What it does prove, though, is that I’ve been very wrong to think that me loving him so much would suffice for us both. It doesn’t. Maybe I should’ve picked up the hints way before, with Mickey and Reinette and …  _everything_. Either way –  _well_. Learned the harsh way, haven’t I? Now’s the time to move on.”

“But you  _still_  love him.”

“But I still love him. And I don’t think I’ll ever really stop, either, Jack.  _Which_ ,” she enunciates, mimicking the way he spoke earlier, “is exactly why I need to stay away.”

 _“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds?_ ”

“Yes. But forced love is no love either.” 

There’s a moment of pointed silence.

“Rose,” Jack sighs and then, to her surprise, lets out a low chuckle. Rubbing his eyes, he shakes his head slowly. “God,  _Rose_. Listen. He nearly  _mauled_ Saxon to death on that pitch.  _Why_? Ah yes, because the idiot dared annoy you. He keeps staring at  _me_  like he wants me dead, too, everytime I come near you. Hell, he looked at me like that no less than five hours ago, when you came up to me after the whole hubbub. If there’s anything he’s  _forcing_  himself into, it’s staying  _away_  from you.”

She’s very still now, staring at him and biting her lip so hard it’s bound to bleed.  
  
“You have to talk him, and you know why? ‘Cause whatever reason he’s cooked up in this pretty head of his for doing what he does, it’s bound to be pretty damn noble and pretty damn  _ridiculous_.”

Her heart is beating too fast again.  _Dammit_.

…

She’s sitting hunched over the Arithmancy charts, nibbling on a pumpkin pastry when he shows up.  And even as he does, she senses it rather than sees – a crisp apple-y scent in the air and a pointed sniffle.

She makes quite a show of not noticing him, which works out well until he speaks out.

“Give me a bite.”

“No.”

“Come  _on_ , Donna, give me a bite.”

“ _No_!” she snaps, looking up and throwing him a scowl. “Go tickle this bloody pear yourself if you’re so hungry, I’m bloody done being your bloody house elf, John!”

He narrows his eyes, glaring down at her from this ridiculous height of his. “Now that’s quite a lot of blood, Donna,” he says testily and she groans.

“Oh, piss off, Spaceboy, I’m busy.”

“Busy doing  _what_ , Arithmancy homework for Captain Tightpants so that he gives you one of those suck-up smiles of his?”

He says it with a lot more bravado than he usually displays in her close proximity, especially after finding her in a mood like that – which means he’s purposefully trying to rile her up. Donna lowers the pastry slowly and lets it rest on the table before swivelling about in order to murder her step-brother with a glare.

“Get out of my table.”

“This is not  _your_  table, Donna, this is the Gryffindor table and –

“Yes,” she grits out, “and since you’re clearly not a Gryffindor, get out of my Gryffindor table!”

He hardly moves, so she tries to make her point bolder. “Go  _away_ , John, I’m mad at you.”

Something in his eyes flashes. “What  _for_? Come on, Donna, all I’m asking is a little –“

And something inside Donna snaps.

“What? A little what? Pity?  _Compassion_?” her voice turns high-pitched and some innocent third-year to their right scurries to his feet, alarmed and  _knowing_  what is bound to follow. 

“A little pat on the back with a kindly ‘ _yes_ , my dear nerdy pumpkin, you did the right thing. You pushed away the  _only_  person in the world that made you act and feel like a  _vaguely_  socially acceptable human being and who, for the record, somehow managed to _love_ this stick-thin incommunicative shit you are! And it’s  _good,_ because you knew that was the best thing to do for  _her_ , the entire Wizarding World and beyond!’  – is that what you want? If so, I’m terribly  _sorry_  but I’ll have to disappoint you.”

His face is stony, impassive. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, don’t I?” she sneers. “Let’s see, then. Ever since you’ve made this bloody profound choice of yours, you’re just plain insufferable to be around. Jerky, annoying,  _rude_. Have you even  _noticed_  how you treat poor Martha? Now, when’s the last time you’ve behaved that way? Hm, let’s think. Oh, yes! Four years ago,  _coincidentally_  right before the moment you blew up Tyler’s summer job and she stitched you up from the bloody mess you’ve been. And you know what? There’s even more to that! Because, funnily enough, the moment you’re back to being the worst possible version of yourself is,  _miraculously_ , the exact same moment I stop seeing Tyler smile.”

There’s a silence and the mixture of stubbornness and vulnerability on his face and Donna knows she’s hit the right spot.

“Funny, isn’t it? And I don’t know,  _maybe_  I do get it wrong! Silly, Arithmancy-obsessed, always-nagging Donna. And maybe I’m wrong when I say that  _time_  – time is not those brilliant theories and charts you so much love to draw. Nor is space the Mars or bloody Venus shining brightly over Firenze’s mighty head when you have those idiotic little conversations in the Forbidden Forest each week. Because  _you_? You know  _better_.”

He flinches a little at that, but remains stonily silent.

“But the way  _I_  see it, time is every stupid  _smile_  you manage to tear in this  _awful_  world from someone who makes it suck a little less. And  _space_? Space is here and now, John. Space is this whole bloody castle. It’s the distance between your coat flapping sadly on the top of Astronomy Tower and the circle of steam Tyler’s breath leaves on the window of our dormitory each bloody night.  _Both_  of you staring at the same stupid stars,  _both_  just  _glaringly_  happy, and oh,  _both_  making so much of this plentiful time you’ve saved for her to have!” 

She pauses for a moment to catch her breath and continues in a quieter voice. “I don’t know, John, how else to break it to you. One would think Saxon’s broken jaw would be evidence enough of your delusion. She  _doesn’t care_  if it was your fault that they died. Everyone makes mistakes. But honestly, _I_ care for you sorry arse too much to let you fuck it all up this bad.”

And oh  _look_ , now there’s no anger in his face anymore, just the round kicked-puppy-eyes and a faint aura of resignation. She stares into those eyes mercilessly for about ten seconds before melting.

_(Nerdy annoying bloody Spaceboy he is, she can never really be angry with him for any self-respecting amount of time.)_

She sniffles. “Now, if you excuse me, I have yet to find a way to convey a perfectly ladylike if filthily sexual subtext in this here Arithmancy chart.”

“Donna, you’re … ” he stutters and trails off. “I’m … we, uh. You – ”

“Oh, shut it,” she grumbles. “No sappy confessions, if you will.”

“ _Thanks._ ” he says meekly. “You’re the best.” And she sniffles again in response, not bothering to look up as he leaves.

Well,  _until_  she discovers he’s magically managed to steal her pastry before going, that is.

…

He finds her in the library.

Of all probable places Rose Tyler could be in – the Quidditch pitch, the kitchens, a dingy corridor on third floor, a  _banned_  corridor leading to Honeydukes – library feels oddly cliché for dealing with his own idiocy. Too much wise words around make his mess of a failed logic even more glaring.

But the sun has died already and there he is: not as much convinced or enlightened by Donna’s heated speech, as simply pushed into motion, hardly even able to find the reasons not to at this point.

( _He remembers it vividly, that night. Remembers her: large gleaming eyes, parted lips. No, you didn’t, you did not get it wrong, a mute cry in his mind as he demands obedience from his body’s muscles and urges them to be still, hating himself for it and still repeating, over and over again that this has to be done._

_At least she doesn’t cry. Or perhaps he’s simply not there to witness it. The thought makes him sick._

_He keeps trying to drown in the shower for the following two weeks, but cruelly enough, can’t seem to succeed._ )

“Rose.”

She gives a twitch. Turns rapidly. Wide, alert eyes, fingers gripping the table, knuckles turned white. “John. God, you …  scared me.”

Her hair falls onto her forehead in a mussed, seemingly coincidental way, but his eyes are  _trained_  to pick up the slightest changes in her appearance.

The long, red mark on her cheekbone does not go unnoticed and before she can say anything more, he’s drawing nearer, his fingers brushing her skin in a slightest touch, brows furrowing.

“Tell me it wasn’t Saxon,” he demands, voice grave. 

She blinks and opens her mouth. “No, it … t’was just a Bludger. Wasn’t quick enough,” she muses.

“ _You_?” he says quietly with a hint of a disbelieving smile. “Impossible.”

She does not smile back, but instead stares at him with the same pinched expression that continues to make his insides form a tight knot and urges his hands to find her waist and pull her closer. 

His smile falters, too. “If I could … I mean,” he cuts off, abruptly. Words feel stiff and  _lacking_  in his mouth. As always, he absolutely  _sucks_  at saying what he wants to say. Looks down. “If you ever need me to – ”

“What are you so  _scared_  of?”

His eyes are back on hers instantly, slightly widened. She’s regarding him steadily and there’s grim determination on her face, some sort of resignation to her fate that makes her bold. And she sounds so  _bitter_.

The reply is automatic, if entirely unconvincing, even to his own ears. “I’m not  _scared_. I just … Rose, God, it’s complicated. Being with me, it would be …” Swallowing when his throat turns dry under the intense scrutiny of her moist eyes, he looks away again. “Long-term, it would … it could  _not_  be good to you. And I would never be able to forgive – ”

“Oh,  _shut up_ ,” she snaps and to his horror, there are actual tears in her eyes as she purses her lips to stop them from trembling. “Bloody  _coward_. That’s what you really are. Not with the big things, not with the … the saving of the world or even saving  _me_. No, with yourself. With letting people in. You push them away because you’re afraid that they are gonna leave you or that  _you_  will leave them or … and ... and this is so  _stupid_. Too stupid to even comprehend when there’s  _nothing_  in the world that could possibly make me … Don’t, John. Not to  _me_. Because I lo –”

Some words need saying. Some, as it occurs to him when his heart practically rips out of his chest by its erratic hammering, do  _not_. 

Some can be cut off by quick motion, hitching breath and lips crashing into lips. Some can collide roughly with the bookshelf, be pressed between Muggle poetry section and tips on how to raise a dragon; and suffocated beneath the familiar heaviness of scent and touch that feels more homely than home itself. Some can be forgotten, with elation, by clumsy urgent fingerts, trembling with anticipation. Twisted off silkily along with his offending tie. Tugged down with her buttons, thrown away to the floor and stepped over. And kissed away, with a tingling sensation, down the slope of her neck.

 _Lost_. Somewhere in the place where skin meets skin and the hormones in his blood start singing.

And then, maybe, there are finally no more words needed.

_(And, Merlin, finally, he doesn’t feel alone.)_

…

She’s dozing off. She  _really_  should be revising Charms, she’s put it out long  _enough_ , but the fire in the Gryffindor tower cracks pleasantly, flooding the room with cosy warmth. And she’s tucked into the tiny space between the armrest and John’s lanky frame, his arm wound around her. And he smells of apples and parchment and  _John_. The tip of his nose nuzzling her hair, lips brushing lightly against her temple, thumb brushing small circles on her shoulder – oh, it’s  _good_ , it’s so good, no matter what anyone ever tries to tell her.

Still. She’s  _dozing off._

A drowsy, thoughtful voice comes drifting from the armchair across the table. Jack Harkness is frowning into the fireplace, blinking like a sleepy cat.

“That sister of yours, Noble … The red-haired one. Donna, her name is. She single,  _eh_?”

**Author's Note:**

> listen to the song: shuck by purity ring


End file.
